


static electric

by besselfcn



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Prose Poem, s5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26383717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: An enumerated list of things you allow yourself to miss, by Martin K. Blackwood.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 13
Kudos: 47





	static electric

**Author's Note:**

> again i ask, is Lee really in a fandom until she makes a poem fic for it?

_An enumerated list of things you allow yourself to miss, by Martin K. Blackwood._

1\. Waking. Opening your eyes to the sharp Scottish sunlight that pours in like syrup through the paper-thin curtains you picked up at an out of the way Primark on the second day of staying here after you realized that window faced the east and you didn’t want the early morning to blind you — haha, blind you. You would yawn and roll over and there would be Jon, each time, his eyes already open staring back at you, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to be unsettled or to be scared, but only to lean forward and press your fingers to his bony cheeks and breathe; a thing possessed.

2\. Sleeping. You must do this to wake. It hurts to close your eyes instead of watching the haze of Jon’s outline in the inky black of the cabin, but you do it anyway, because he says _sleep, Martin,_ and your name on his tongue is-always-has-been an intoxicating draught.

3\. Tea. God, you miss tea. The ritual of it, the warmth in your hands. Nothing has felt warm in your hands in an hour, a decade, a month. You open your mouth and think of lemongrass and taste the bone fragments of soldiers left behind.

~~4\. Tim. Melanie. Sasha. Your mother — no, not your mother, she hated you, or Elias said she did, and he Knew like Jon Knows and Jon has never, not once, corrected you when you mentioned her. But the rest, the rest. A broken thing trapped in a table trapped in a labyrinth. A girl who escaped, who moved on, who lived her life for a few precious weeks and you hated her so deeply for it you thought you would choke on your own tongue. A closed casket funeral because they couldn’t find enough pieces of him to bury. You hope they never find enough pieces of you to bury. You hope when you die it’s the shattering static of Jonathan Sims stripping your atoms apart until you melt, finally, into a universe that is stitched at it seams for him, by him, through him.~~

4\. Your flat, with the planter-box windowsill and the spider webs spun above your foyer door.

5\. Quiet. London-quiet, city-quiet; the quiet of rushing cars and honking horns and drunkards shouting at each other. The quiet of your upstairs neighbors vacuuming and your downstairs neighbors fucking and your phone ringing, ringing, ringing as telemarketers try to reach you. The low-down din of a world full of people. Not wind. Not the sea. Not the rattling press of a continent’s worth of tinnitus ringing in your ears. The quiet under your duvet cover when the world around you is loud, and your mouth is pressed to his, and this is all you will ever need, ever have, ever want or wish or dream could be.


End file.
